Two years ago I could sleep through the night, every night. You could say I was a champion sleeper. Now it’s a thing. I got a thing. A sleep thing.
First I must take a hot bath, temperature just shy of scolding. That way I’m almost hypnotized by the heat. Like drawing a straight line in front of a chicken, I plop down with my head right under the blade.
Then there’s more heat required for my back, which without the constant heat of a heating pad, is stiff like an old man on viagra. Nothing pretty about that.
I must refrain from consuming liquid around four in the afternoon, five if I’m feeling rebellious and childish, drinking 8 ounces of juice in one gulp then displaying my red stained fruit punch tongue as a challenge to the pee Gods. If I lose, it’s free refills all night at the toilet tavern.
Heavy, sleepy, thoughts of Depends float through my dreams like little potty training sheep protected by layers of absorbent cotton. Those bastards.
I turn over. My sweat has marinaded the front side of my succulent breast. I turn on my right wing to simmer.
Normally I’m awakened by a scream or a jolt of sheer terror from a bad dream, a side effect from medication, lack of sleep, and dehydration caused by the Sahara like temperatures of my bed. Or it could just be the roasting thermometer telling me I’m perfectly cooked.
Some nights it’s easier to opt for exhaustion although if you set your heating pad at 350 degrees, it can make for a pretty good tan.